The Factory
by A. Kingsleigh
Summary: In 1963, a question was asked that continues to plague our greatest minds to this day. Now, that question has been answered.


**When your best friends are rabid Whovians, it's only a matter of time before **_**you**_** get infected. I learned that the hard way. I was recently introduced to the awesomeness that is Doctor Who, and this is my first attempt at a fanfic for it. I love the show to bits, but one thing keeps bugging me, a thing my friends and I were discussing, a question I intend to resolve...**

_**Where do all these godforsaken Daleks keep COMING FROM?**_

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Doctor Who, but if I did you'd know it; the "10 becomes 10.5 when he regenerates" theory would be undisputed canon right now. That guy ****deserves to get a_ FREAKING BREAK._**

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><p>Dalek.<p>

_What a silly-sounding word,_ some ignorant soul might think if they chanced to hear it. _Surely it can't be __**that**__ horrible._

It can, and it _is._

The Daleks are hated monsters, the archenemy of all other living creatures. Born small and frail, they live in armor equipped with the deadliest of weapons, able to inflict a miserable, terrible death with only a single blast from their lasers, without a second thought. Their reason? It was not a Dalek, of course. Everything not a Dalek is evil, and must be exterminated. As they travel about the universe, through time and space, that is their battle cry: "EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE!"

Daleks, however, are more than just the killers of the universe; they are also the pests. Consider this scenario; Daleks will appear somewhere, cause a little death and destruction and the Doctor - most of the time it is the Doctor - will destroy them for good. _That was close,_ his companions might think as everyone leaves in the TARDIS, another adventure over. _At least they're gone._

The Doctor knows better.

He knows that he can decimate those creatures as many times as is necessary, as many times as he wishes, and it will always be for nothing. For the simple truth about the Daleks is this; they always return. **Always.**

It is such a normal occurrence that it has, in many ways, ceased to be a surprise to the Doctor. Sometimes, however, he wonders just how it is that this particular scourge of his refuses to stay dead.

If only he knew...

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><p>There is a dimension which even the Doctor has never been to. Quite far away. It's a very small dimension, just large enough to contain a single building. It's a large building, however, all cement and steel and smoke. The ominous whirring and grinding of machines emanates from this building, every moment of every day. For all of time. There are no people to work the machines; the whole place is entirely automated. Perhaps someone built it once; if they did, they are long gone. All they left behind is the programming given to the machines in this building, programming they have dutifully carried out for a <em>very<em> long time.

See that strange orb atop the building? Shiny black rock, glowing blue? Yeah, that's a magnet. Not an ordinary magnet, though. It attracts hatred, anger, bloodlust, revenge, all the dark feelings from every corner of every universe. It draws them into the dimension, down into the depths of the terrible building. There, they get swooshed around in a large tank, pressed tighter and tighter and tighter, until they solidify. And what do they solidify as?

Eggs. Dull, black eggs. These eggs are immediately put into an incubator of sorts, designed to strengthen the dark feelings within them. When these feelings are powerful enough, the eggs will hatch. And _oh,_ the creatures which hatch from them!

They're like squids...demented, freakish squids. Born a very light pink, they soon turn white. Rather ironic, that. They have several long, spindly tentacles and one leering, menacing eye smack in the middle of its forehead. The only sounds they can make are squeaks, and so they squeak out their undying hatred for all other life forms and their desire that these creatures die merely for committing the crime of existence. How's that for "full of blood and anger and revenge," eh?

The creatures grow quickly, and so do their black emotions. When they're all ready to leave the nest, they get put in the suit. Contained within this suit is everything the little demon requires to live out its genocidal fantasies: blasters to kill, a force field generator to protect, a vacuum to **_really_** make the victim suffer, even a translator to speak with other lifeforms. Spread the message; _You. Are Going. To Die._

Now it's time for the final, most important step. The creatures, strapped in the suits they'll be spending the rest of their lives in, are herded beneath a large glass dome. Circuits rewire themselves, the lights flicker and _FLASH!_ They're gone. Off to the other dimensions, to be exact. Let loose, free to spread terror wherever they roam. They may die, but it doesn't matter...the factory will **always** be making more, for that is its programming. See? There it goes again, pushing them under the dome! _FLASH!_

Another fresh batch of Daleks, ready to exterminate.

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><p><strong>So I came up with the idea for this when my friends and I were bored and discussing the question raised at the beginning of the chapter. After a while, we finally decided, "There's a factory somewhere that just churns them out. Add a little water, and POOF! More Daleks!" I put a little more detail into the process, but kept that same basic idea. Hope you found it entertaining!<strong>

**~ A. Kingsleigh**


End file.
